McBain, Ed - Killer's Wedge

No, the door had to be locked.

There was physical evidence that it had been locked, too. For, had the slip bolt not been fastened against the retaining loop of metal, the lock would not have been ripped from the doorframe when the crowbar was used on it.

"We had to use the crowbar," Alan had said.

"We tried to pull it open by force, and then Mark realized the door was locked from the inside, and he went out to the garage to get the crowbar. We wedged it into the door and snapped the lock."

"Then what?"

"Then Mark stepped up to the door and tried to open it again. He couldn't understand why it wouldn't open. We'd snapped the lock, hadn't we? We used the crowbar a second time, wedging the door open. That was ... was when we saw Father.

You know the rest."

So the door had been locked.

So it's suicide.

Or maybe it isn't.

What do we do now? Send a wire off to John Dickson Carr?

Wearily, Carella trudged downstairs, walking past the clutter of wood splinters still in the hallway outside the door.

He found Christine Scott in the small sitting room overlooking the River Harb. I don't believe any of these people's names, Carella thought. They've all popped out of some damn British comedy of manners, and they're all make-believe, and that old man up there did commit suicide and why the devil am I wasting my time questioning people and snooping around a musty garret room without any windows?

"Detective Carella?" Christine said.

She looked colorless against the flaming reds and oranges of the trees which lined the river bank. Her hair was an ash blond, almost silvery, but it gave an impression of lack of pigmentation. Her eyes, too, were a lavender-blue but so pastel as to be almost without real color. She wore no lipstick. Her frock was white.

A simple jade necklace hung at her throat.

"Mrs. Scott," he said, "how are you feeling now?"

"Much better, thank you." She looked out at the flaming trees.

"This is my favorite spot, right here. This is where I first met the old man.

When David first brought me to this house." She paused. The lavender-blue eyes turned toward Carella.

"Why do you suppose he killed himself, Detective Carella?"

"I don't know, Mrs. Scott," Carella said.

"Where's your husband?"

"David? In his room. He's taking this rather hard."

"And his brothers?"

"Around the house somewhere. This is a very big house, you know. The old man built it for his bride. It cost seventy five thousand dollars to build, and that was back in 1896 when money was worth a great deal more than it is now.

Have you seen the bridal suite upstairs?"

"It's magnificent. Huge oak panels, and marble counter tops, and gold bathroom fixtures. And these wonderful windows that open onto a balcony overlooking the river. There aren't many houses like this one left in the city."

"I guess not," Carella said.

Christine Scott crossed her legs, and Carella noticed them and thought, She has good legs. The stamp of America. Legs without rickets. Firm fleshy calves and slender ankles and shoes that cost her fifty seven-fifty a pair. Did her husband kill the old man?

"Can I offer you a drink, Detective Carella? Is that allowed?"

Carella smiled.

"It's frowned upon."

"But permitted?"

"Occasionally."

"I'll ring for Roger."

"Don't bother, please, Mrs. Scott. I wanted to ask you some questions."

"Oh?" She seemed surprised. Her eyebrows moved up onto her forehead, and he noticed for the first time that her eyebrows were black, and he wondered whether or not the ash blond hair was a bleach job, and he realized it probably was, no damn woman alive owned the impossible combination of ash blond hair and black eyebrows. Phony, he thought. Mrs.

Christine Scott, who just stepped out of a British comedy of manners.

"What kind of questions?"

"About what happened here yesterday."

"Yes?"

"Tell me."

"I was out back walking," Christine said.

"I like to walk along the river. And the weather's been so magnificent, so much color, and such warm air... "Yes? Then what?"

"I saw Mark rush out of the house, running for the garage. I could tell by the look on his face that something was wrong.

I ran over to the garage just as Mark came out with the crowbar.

"What's the matter?" I said."

"And what did he answer?"

"He said, "Father's locked himself in the den and he won't answer us. We're going to force the door." That was all."

"Then what?"

men tie rusnec to me flouse, ai'u after him. David and Alan were upstairs, outside the door to Father's den. He was in there, you see, even though he's got a very large and beautiful study downstairs."

"Did he use the den often?"

"Yes. As a retreat, I suppose. He has his favorite books in there, and his music. A retreat."

"Was he in the habit of locking the door?"

"Yes."

"He always locked the door when he went up there?"

"As far as I know, yes. I know I've often gone up to call him for dinner or something, and the door's been locked."

"What happened when you came upstairs with Mark?"

"Well, Alan said they'd been trying to open the door, and it was probably locked, and they were going to force it."

"Did he seem anxious about your father in-law?"

"Yes, of course he did. They'd been pounding on the door and making all sorts of noise and they'd got no answer.

Wouldn't you have been anxious?"

"What? Oh, yes. Sure, I would. Then what?"

"They stuck the crowbar into the crack between door and jamb, and forced the lock."

"Then what?"

"Then Mark tried to open it, but it still wouldn't open. So they tugged on it and saw ... saw .

that the old man had hanged himself, is that right?"

"Yes." C'nristine's voice dropped to a whisper.

"Yes, That's right."

"Who was the first to notice this?"

"I was. I was standing a little bit away from them as they pried the door open. I could see the crack, and I saw ... this ... this figure hanging there, and I ... I realized it was Father and I ... I screamed!"

"Who noticed it next?"

"Alan did. And he took a knife out of his pocket and then reached into the room and cut the rope."

"And then the door opened easily, did it?"

"Yes."

"Then what?"

"They called Roger and asked him to phone the police."

"Did anyone touch anything in the room?"

"No. Not even Father."

"None of them went to your father-inlaw?"

"They went to him, but they didn't touch him. They could see immediately that he was dead. David didn't think they should touch him."

"Why not?"

"Why, because he was dead."

"So?"

"He... he knew there would be policemen here, I

"But he also knew his father had committed suicide, didn't he?"

"Well ... well, yes, I suppose so."

"Then why did he warn the others not to touch the body?"

"I'm sure I don't know," Christine said curtly. Carella cleared his throat.

"Do you have any idea how much your father-in-law was worth, Mrs. Scott?"

"Worth? What do you mean worth?"

"In property," Carella said.

"In money."

"No. I have no idea."

"You must have some idea, Mrs. Scott.

Surely you know he was a very wealthy man."

"Yes, of course I know that."

"But not how wealthy, is that right?"

"That's right."

"Did you know that he left $750,000 to be divided equally among his three sons.

Not to mention Scott Industries, Inc." and various other holdings. Did you know that?"

"No. I didn't-" Christine stopped.

"What are you implying Detective Carella?"

"Implying? Nothing. I'm stating a fact of inheritance, that's all. Do you find the fact has implications?"

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, damnit, it has implications. It implies that perhaps someone deliberately ... that's your damn implication, isn't it?"